


I Fall So Hard And I Call It Magic

by suchfun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Between Seasons/Series, Derek Never Left, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Specifically S4/S5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchfun/pseuds/suchfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles smells different.</p>
<p>It wasn't obvious at first—his car, his clothes, the people closest to him, they all smell enough like his old scent that it overpowers anything new. As far as emotions go, there's the usual anxiety, stress, tension, exhaustion, guilt. </p>
<p>But the base notes of his scent, the primary olfactory information anyone would use to track Stiles, are… stronger now, and not in a way that relates to being unwashed. They're sharper, more noticeable, less human and more…</p>
<p>Magical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Fall So Hard And I Call It Magic

**Author's Note:**

> For Fix Canon week of the Sterek Summer Spectacle! Many thanks to my team~ We're Telluric Currents, in case you feel like voting over at [Sterek Shelter](http://sterekshelter.tumblr.com)... ;)
> 
> This is set between seasons four and five, borrowing a lil from the last ep of season four. Title from Magic by Coldplay.

Derek knows Lydia is right. 

He can feel it coming, even as he learns to use a gun, even as he throws himself into finding Scott and Kira, even as he makes pretty speeches about not giving up. It's creeping in on him, thick and cloying, the stench of blood always ghosting on the periphery of his senses, phantom pains in his chest throbbing when he tries to sleep.

He's human, his name is on the deadpool, Lydia screamed for him. It's inevitable, at this point.

He's going to die.

He wonders if this is how Laura felt when Peter lured her to Beacon Hills—this dread that's constantly warring with acceptance of her own fate. This struggle for control, even as the helplessness just grows stronger.

The rest of his family certainly didn't feel it.. They had no idea what was lying in store for them. 

At least he's going to Mexico prepared.

 

Derek dies. 

 

He dies, but then—he doesn't.

He feels something shift inside him. Something slots into place, _everything_ slots into place, everything makes sense and everything hurts, his body is twisting and changing and—

He evolves. 

His wolf form feels like freedom.

 

He confronts Kate. 

He wants to kill her. His claws ache with it, he can already taste her blood and feel her life force slip away, hear her breaths stop in her throat and her heartbeat fade. He's imagined it, in great detail, so many times. And now he's here.

And he doesn't do it.

He doesn't have to. 

He's already won.

 

He shifts back into his human form, he destroys the berserker. Chris takes care of Kate and Peter. The others save Scott. Kira is okay.

No one else dies.

It's over.

 

He ties Braeden's jacket around his waist, hitches it around to cover his crotch like a heavy leather half-hospital gown. He accidentally flashes the Calaveras. He considers it punishment for all the torture.

Braeden touches his arm, draws him aside while Chris is talking to Scott.

"Derek," she says seriously. "What now?"

Derek shakes his head. He wishes he knew.

"What about you?" he murmurs.

"There's someone I have to find," she says. "And someone who'll want to come with me to find her."

Derek follows her gaze.

Stiles is standing by the Jeep, talking in low tones with Malia. They both look miserable.

"The Desert Wolf," Derek says.

Braeden nods. "I never leave a job unfinished." She looks steadily at Derek. She's exceptional at masking her emotions. Even after all the time they've spent together, he still can't get a good read on her. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," Derek allows.

"And this time?"

Derek turns back to Stiles and Malia. Malia is hugging Stiles, probably too hard for a human to really handle. She kisses him quickly, for the last time, then hurries to Braeden's van, swiping at her eyes.

Stiles watches her go, fists clenched, face crumpled. He glances at Derek. They hold each other's gaze.

"I'm sorry," Derek apologises. He's not sure who to.

 

He chooses Stiles.

It's instinctual.

He's shifted into a wolf before he even realises he's actively made the decision, and he wrestles the jacket off, taking it between his teeth and gently presenting it to Braeden.

"Right," she says softly, then again, eyed hardening as she takes her jacket and straightens, "Right."

Derek lets her go. 

He trots over to Stiles, pushing past him and jumping up into the Jeep, settling in the passenger seat. Stiles gapes at him, but Kira doesn't comment as she hauls herself into the back, followed soon enough by Scott and Liam once they've finished folding Peter's prone body into the trunk.

"Sure, yeah, treat me like a werewolf Uber service," he says grumpily. "If we get pulled over, someone else can explain this."

Ten minutes later, he exclaims, "A s _uber_ natural service!"

Everyone ignores him.

 

The drive home from Mexico feels longer than the trip there.

When Stiles' stomach starts growling so loudly it's keeping Liam awake, they stop off to get some food. 

Derek stays in the car. Stiles buys him six bacon cupcakes. He eats them all at once.

 

"Don't ever do that again," Stiles mutters.

They're almost home. The others are asleep, sprawled all over each other in the back like puppies.

Derek lays a paw over Stiles' hand on the gear shift.

It's the only thing Stiles says for the rest of the trip.

 

Stiles smells different.

It wasn't obvious at first—his car, his clothes, the people closest to him, they all smell enough like his old scent that it overpowers anything new. It isn't until they finally reach Beacon Hills that Derek notices it. He's the last one to be dropped off, and when they pull up at the loft Stiles leans over to open the passenger door for him, practically dangling his neck in Derek's muzzle.

As far as emotions go, there's the usual anxiety, stress, tension, exhaustion, guilt. Some relief, which is less common, but still recognisable. A new layer of sadness, which is probably Malia-related.

But the base notes of his scent, the primary olfactory information anyone would use to track Stiles, are… stronger now, and not in a way that relates to being unwashed. They're sharper, more noticeable, less human and more… 

Magical.

Derek wrenches his body towards Stiles, following his movements as he settles back in his seat.

He stares.

Stiles stares back. He raises his eyebrows. "So…" He gestures outside. "Ten-hut, dude. I gotta go see my dad so he can ground me already, just so you know you probably won't see me again til the next blue moon." 

Derek ignores him. He leans closer, trying to get a proper lock on his scent, but Stiles lurches backwards, too far out of range.

"Woah, Derek, it was supposed to be a metaphor, chill! No need to go straight for the jugular. Do we need to get you obedience trained? Or maybe castrated?" He smirks, but it quickly turns into a flinch when Derek growls and snaps his teeth.

Derek is pleased by how much of his irritation he can convey in his wolf form.

With one last glare at Stiles, because it's clear they're not going to get anywhere with this tonight, he leaps out of the car and watches Stiles slam the door shut and careen out of the parking lot, his scent trailing behind him.

 

"I think you're magical," Derek says, barely giving Stiles enough time to accept his call.

It's been less than twenty-four hours. Derek has spent his time wandering aimlessly around the loft in human form and wandering aimlessly around the Preserve in wolf form, alternately questioning why he came back and then remembering why he did. He finally gave in and decided he needed to call when he found himself outside of Stiles' house, caked with mud and unaware of having even made the trip—or which form he made it in.

Stiles pauses. "Dude, are you asking me to marry you?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "I mean," he growls, "you smell. Like magic. Like how you smelled when you made the mountain ash circle at the rave, but a hundred times stronger."

"That was like two years ago, how do you even remember that?"

Derek grits his teeth. It was stupid of him to think that Stiles might stay on topic.

"Are you talking about that spark thing Deaton mentioned back then?" he continues. "That was nothing, dude."

"No, this is different," Derek insists. "It's more. _You're_ more. Stronger."

Stiles snorts. "Me. Strong. Derek, are you screwing with me right now?"

"Stiles!" he barks. "You have _magic_."

"Oh," he says finally, voice echoing, wherever he is. "Wait, seriously? I was wondering how my dad's call got through at La Iglesia."

"You took a call," Derek says slowly, "from your dad. While I was dying. While Scott was forced into being a berserker. While Peter was planning everyone's demise. You had time for a phone call."

"It was my dad," he says, like it's enough. Considering Stiles' very transparent priorities, it probably is. "If it makes you feel any better, as soon as I got home he handcuffed me to a filing cabinet and wouldn't let me eat pizza as punishment."

"Punishment for saving your friends?"

Stiles lets out a frustrated noise. "What— Whose side are you on, anyway?"

Usually the losing side, Derek thinks. He doesn't say it.

 

He calls Braeden, too. 

He's pretty sure Stiles doesn't realise how big this is, what this will mean for him, and Derek just _knows_ they're gonna end up needing help. Also, he might want to check on her. Just a little. Even though it's selfish.

She can always reject his phone call.

She doesn't.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," he says.

There's a pause.

"Did you want something?" She's professional, cold. Right back to where they started.

It throws him off. He doesn't know what he was expecting. "I… How are you?"

There's a clattering sound. Then, "Really, Derek?"

Another awkward pause.

He tries a different angle. "So, have you made any progress?"

She hums. "Some."

"And… How's Malia?"

"Just wild enough to be good at this." She sighs. "Derek, come on. If you really wanted to know about Stiles' girlfriend you could just ask Stiles."

Derek doesn't really want to hear Stiles talk about someone else—especially not like that. He doesn't say that, though. He'll never say that to anybody. "Yeah. I… Sorry. Sorry. Is what I wanted to say."

"What the hell for?"

"We… were something. We had something. Right?"

"I've had lots of somethings with lots of different people. They only mean as much as you want them to. Either of you," she adds, stressing it like it's important. Always giving him a chance to escape. Always holding herself at arm's length.

Except, that's not fair. He remembers flashes of what happened, just before he died. Stiles' wide eyes. Kate's sneer. The sound of heavy gunfire. The stench and feel of his own blood, acrid and slick and coming way too fast.

Braeden's tears, her calling his name. Braeden defending him. She always cared about him, just… not in a way he really wanted.

"You protected me," he says insistently, because it still means something. It means a lot.

"You don't owe me anything, Derek," she says seriously.

He almost believes her. "I'm just… not used to it."

She hums again. "I think you are, actually," she says, in a way that makes him pause.

It makes him pause, and it makes him think of wolfsbane bullets and bone saws, of swimming pools and elevators and hospitals, of cramped armoured vans. It makes him think of a hand on his shoulder, trembling and unsure, but grounding all the same.

 

"I'm sorry I was sceptical," Stiles bursts out, when Derek rolls the loft door open the next day. "I believe you now, oh my god, okay, I'm magical, I get it! And it should be totally be awesome, right, _magic_ , I can do things with my _mind_ , but in typical Stilinski fashion it's the lamest magic ever! All I've done so far is accidentally lock myself in the bathroom for an hour this morning, and then finally escape only to lock my dad out of the house _and_ send all our phones into a meltdown. _He_ doesn't know it was me doing it, but I do, yeah, because in case I wasn't aware yet that all this was my fault, I nearly collapsed at the energy drain. I had to have a power nap before driving over, Derek! I can't do this, and there is _no_ school to teach this stuff, I checked! Sadly, Hogwarts remains entirely fictional!"

Derek rolls his eyes, offering up token exasperation, as expected. So put upon, like he hasn't been hanging around just waiting for Stiles to come to him. "What about Deaton?" 

"AWOL, and also, no freakin' way. I'd probably end up locking him away forever, just so he couldn't be enigmatic anymore, and then Scott would hate me."

"Would Scott ever hate you?"

Stiles' eyes darken. It's unnerving. It reminds Derek of the Nogitsune, when he was controlling Stiles' body, when everything about him was just that bit sharper. More dangerous.

Stiles would _loathe_ the comparison.

Derek forces himself to look away. "What do you think _I_ can do for you?"

"I don't know, dude, like… supernatural 101? Basic control techniques? Anything! I can't do this by myself and I don't want Scott to—" He shifts uneasily. "Look, are you gonna help me or not?"

Like Derek could ever say no to Stiles. "Meet me at the Preserve in half an hour," he says.

"Where in the Preserve?"

"I'll find you." He grins, ensuring it's his most intimidating one, but Stiles is unaffected. His scent doesn't even change as he salutes and walks away.

 

Derek hated every second of being human.

Of all the shit he's been through, it was one of the worst things to ever happen to him, just like Kate knew it would be. 

He hated the extreme dulling of his senses, and how vulnerable it made him. He hated not having the shift, not being able to run and heal like he should. He hated having to use a gun, having to rely on this weapon that was so disconnected from his own body. He _hated_ losing the very last link he has to his family, feeling helpless and just so _wrong_. He hated feeling like his body wasn't his own, like he lost such a huge part of himself that he wasn't sure there was anything left.

Now that he's a wolf again he's in a better place to help Stiles—he's less likely to get hurt if things go wrong, anyway—and he even has a small idea of what Stiles is going through.

He just hopes Stiles is more open to his ideas than Scott was.

 

"You need to learn control," he tells Stiles.

"Baby I swear it's, deja vu," Stiles sings softly, under his breath, flat and off-key. 

Derek doesn't acknowledge him. Or the Beyoncé. He drops into more of a crouch, loosening his limbs, extending his senses, getting a read on the forest around them. 

Stiles eyes him warily. "You're not gonna lob lacrosse balls at my head, are you?"

Derek sighs.

Of course Stiles and Scott did that.

Of course.

 

Stiles has terrible control.

His magic runs rampant. Derek has to duck rocks and branches flying at his head five times, his phone calls Stiles' every two minutes even though they have no reception, and he even though his car is parked a mile away he can hear the doors going crazy, locking and unlocking and opening and closing themselves over and over.

He tries to work with Stiles, to get him to at least access the magical part of him, but it's a bit difficult when Stiles doesn't even know how he's doing anything. In the end Stiles collapses on the ground after only twenty minutes, puffing and spreading out his limbs.

"You look like an angry starfish," Derek tells him, smirking down at him.

"Starfish can regenerate their arms, so maybe if you'd been a werestarfish back when you were begging me to chop off your arm we wouldn't be in this mess," Stiles shoots back, around huffing breaths.

"Maybe if _you_ were a wereporcupine you'd have an excuse for being such a prick," Derek says calmly.

And it's dumb, it's so dumb. But Stiles sputters out defensive half-sentences, and Derek has to hold in a smile.

 

When Derek wakes up that night, screaming, his fangs and claws throbbing, his muscles burning, his _whole body_ on fire, he knows that when he opens his eyes, they'll be red.

He just doesn't know _how_.

 

Stiles.

It's Stiles.

It's always Stiles.

 

"I did something," Stiles gasps into the phone. "I didn't mean to, I— I was just— and now my magic is— I think you— oh god, please say something, tell me you're okay—"

"Stiles," Derek barks sharply, to get Stiles out of his head for a second, to give Derek a second to say something. He listens to Stiles' hitching breaths get steadier. "I'm the Alpha."

There's nothing. And then, "You motherfu—"

 

Derek should have known this would happen.

He should have realised sooner, but he was too busy thinking that their relationship was one-sided. Too quick to think that their bond was all in his head. He's known for a while that Stiles is his anchor, after all. It was easy to put any connection between them down to that.

Apparently, it's more than that. And it probably always has been.

 

"I almost wish Deaton was here, you know?" Stiles admits. 

He's pacing across the loft, freaking out because Derek called Scott, who is now on his way over. Derek hasn't seen much of Scott since Mexico, and the amount of spare time Stiles seems to have indicates that he hasn't either, but. This isn't really something they can keep to themselves for very long.

Derek leans back on the couch, slinging his arm over the edge. Hoping some of his own calm will rub off on Stiles is probably a waste of time but he's trying to be a bit more of an optimist, these days. Coming back from the dead will do that to you. "That's a bit extreme."

"This is an extreme situation, Derek!" Stiles says, stopping short, gesturing rapidly between them. "I have _magic_! Magic that keeps doing stupid shit, magic that's connected to you! And I made you an _Alpha_! We already _have_ an Alpha, and he's nearly here! And if you guys have a fight to the death for supreme Alpha-dom then it'll be my fault! Oh my god, this is all my fault." His hands go straight to his hair and begin to rend at it.

Derek kicks him in the shin. "We're not just gonna go at each other, Stiles. Not in any way those words could be interpreted," he adds quickly, before Stiles can pounce on the suggestiveness of his phrasing. "Scott is a rational person, he's perfectly capable of—"

Which is when Derek's door is flung open and Scott does a forward roll into the room and lands in a crouch, wolfed-out and glaring. "Where's the other Alpha?" he demands to know.

Stiles rubs at his temples. Everyone's phone starts going off at once. He turns to Derek, yells over the cacophony. "You were saying?"

 

After everyone turns off their phone, it takes over half an hour to tell Scott what's been happening. Mostly because he seems offended that Stiles would keep something from him.

"Dude," Stiles says, more than once, "everyone's been pretty busy!"

"But we don't hide things from each other!" Scott says, also more than once.

That part has definitely never been true, but Derek doesn't interrupt.

Scott also hasn't let Stiles—or Kira and Lydia, who Scott allowed into the loft once he realised the other Alpha was Derek—anywhere near Derek. He's herded them all to the space directly in front of the door, and every time Stiles paces too close to Derek he reaches out and drags him back.

Derek understands, he really does. 

"So, you and Derek are linked somehow," Lydia says, crossing her arms, narrowing her eyes at Stiles. "Since when?"

"I don't know!" Stiles cries. "I don't know anything! Everything is terrible and I know nothing!"

Lydia turns her gaze to Derek.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "Maybe always?"

" _Alw_ —" Stiles whips around to face him, eyes wide, heart rate speeding up. " _Always_?"

"I _don't know_ ," Derek reiterates, unable to stop the growl from leeching into his tone. "There's obviously _something_. My full shift and your powers came in almost simultaneously and then you turned me into an Alpha."

Kira cocks her head. "That's recent stuff, though," she points out.

Derek shifts uncomfortably. He'd been hoping he'd never have to say this out loud, but it seems like he's out of options. "It's… there's been things before. I think he's… he's kind of been like an… anchor. For me. In the past."

"Your _anchor_?" Scott says, voice going painfully high. He's staring like Derek is crazy, and Derek cringes.

If anyone understands the significance of an anchor, it's Scott.

"Not my _anchor_ ," Derek says quickly, although he's not sure who he's trying to fool at this point. "He just… performs some… anchor-like functions."

"You even sound like him now!" Scott accuses.

"Oh my god," Lydia mutters.

"Oh my god," Stiles echoes. The loft door heaves itself open and bangs shut. The others jump but he ignores it, lowering himself down on the couch next to Derek, gripping the armrest. His scent is simmering with confusion and discomfort, and Derek wants to put a hand on his shoulder.

He forces himself to stay still.

"You know, I think I read this once in a fanfiction!" Kira breathes suddenly, eyes wide.

Lydia frowns. "A what?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know," she scolds, "I've seen you read it!"

"Only Lord Voldemort smut," she shoots back, smiling sweetly.

"Hot," Stiles says absently.

"Gross," Kira says, wrinkling her nose.

"Guys," Scott cuts in, voice sharp. "What the hell? Kira, what was in this fanfiction thing?"

"It's this trope, it's like…" She takes a moment. "Kind of like when two people are… destined."

"Destined." It's the flattest Scott has ever sounded. 

"Yeah, like. A soul bond!" she says.

Stiles lets out a strangled noise. This time, Derek's fridge doors spring open, and he hurries to slam them shut. "Okay, you are not making it better."

Kira shrugs. "Sorry, I…" She exchanges a glance with Lydia, who just rolls her eyes.

"So, I think what Scott probably wants to know now is what Derek's intentions are," she says lightly, redirecting the subject.

Derek is distracted by the way Stiles' chemo signals explode with relief before he actually registers her words. He frowns. "My _intentions_?"

"Yeah," Scott says, puffing out his chest, turning even more combative. "Towards my— our— this pack. And Stiles. What do you want from us?"

"I want… to figure this thing with Stiles out," Derek says. "And help him with his powers. I'm not interested in any member of your pack, Scott." 

Stiles looks over at him, expression grateful, and Scott nods, seeming to accept it.

Derek swallows harshly. His heartbeat must have let him off on a technicality, because the truth is Derek is very interested. He just doesn't see Stiles as part of Scott's pack.

Not anymore.

 

"So," Stiles says slowly, obviously calmer now that the others are gone—none of the doors in the loft have acted out for at least three minutes. He looks at Derek curiously, seeming happy enough to ignore Derek's revelation for the moment, and Derek is more than happy to let him. "Do you just not feel like you need to expand your pack, or what?"

Derek flexes his fists. "It's not like it was before, last time I was an Alpha. I feel more settled than before. More connected to…"

"To your wolfy side?"

"There is no side, Stiles, the wolf is me, it's all throughout me, in every cell. This time it's kind of just like… I can feel those cells better. Like I'm more connected to them. Like, instead of trying to mix oil and water I've got—"

"Milk and Nesquik," Stiles says, nodding.

"If you want," Derek says, letting amusement creep into his voice.

"Aaaaaand," he says, staring intently at the floor, "is that because of me?"

Derek can't lie to him. Not anymore. "I think so."

Stiles nods. He keeps nodding, like he's stuck. A Stiles-bobblehead. "So you won't be running around biting a new batch of teenagers?"

"No," Derek says softly. "I think I've learned my lesson."

Stiles' scent immediately sours. "Dude, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Stop apologising, it's unbecoming." He takes a step back, considers what Stiles is asking. He can't feel much in terms of pack bonds. Cora has another Alpha, and Peter's presence is muffled to the point of silence in Eichen House. "Cora's still pack, I can feel her. Just. Isaac and Jackson are too far away."

"And Peter?"

"Rarely. I try not to."

Stiles nods. He hesitates, but he still asks, "What about Braeden, isn't she your pack?"

Derek takes a deep breath. "I don't feel Braeden," he says levelly.

"Not at all?"

"Not at all," he says, holding Stiles' gaze.

Stiles looks away first.

The pantry door pops open.

 

The one person Derek hasn't spoken to since his resurrection is Cora.

Which means that she finds out what happened through Stiles.

Which means that she calls him in a rage, and spends ten minutes ripping into him. Derek lets her. He's only half listening anyway. He's hovering over the stove in his threadbare kitchen, trying to remember his mom's recipe for bolognese. It was the only thing she knew how to make, and it was delicious, but she did it from memory. There's no record of anywhere. It's not even in the old records in the Hale vault—Derek has been making an inventory of all the stuff in there, hoping to find something to help Stiles, and he's found nothing of use in either area.

The recipe stuff isn't all that important, really. He just… he maybe wants to make something for Stiles one day.

Because he's an idiot.

When he tunes back in to Cora, she's moved on to yelling threats at him, but she's winding down now. Threats always mean her rants are drawing to a close. "I'm gonna rip your throat out!" she spits. "Why the hell didn't you just _tell_ me! I can't believe you can fully shift! And you're an Alpha again!"

Derek wonders if she knows the rest of it, too. The way every part of him is tied to Stiles now. If she did she'd probably only be more annoyed, so Derek decides to remain as vague as possible. "We've been pretty busy—"

"Too busy for your one remaining family member?"

"Too busy for anything that isn't figuring out what the hell is happening."

Cora snorts. "What's there to figure out? The Alpha has always been strong with our family—"

"Yeah, because we keep stealing it from each other," Derek mutters, jabbing at the onion with his wooden spoon.

"—and I think you should just take advantage of this. You have a second chance, Derek," she says. "I know you're a good person. You made mistakes, but who hasn't. I hope you can try to forgive yourself, and let yourself be happy. Mom would have wanted you to be happy."

Derek blinks. "Cora." He slumps against the counter and rubs his eyes. "I don't think I'm ready to— I can't talk about this right now."

"That's fine. Maybe you could tell your anchor all about it instead," she says casually.

Oh, great. "You know."

"I know."

"And?"

"And I think you guys are stupid assholes who deserve each other."

Derek can't help the grin he feels blooming across his face. "You're such a romantic."

She blows a raspberry.

He rolls his eyes.

It feels really good.

"So are you gonna stay in Beacon Hills?" Cora asks. "How will that even work?"

"I'm not sure. I know it'd probably be good to get away, but."

"But Stiles," Cora says softly.

"Yeah."

"I get it, Derek," she assures him. "I know how important he is to you."

"You are too."

"Duh," she says. And then, "So Peter's in Eichen, huh?"

Derek cringes. He forgot to tell her that, too. His annoyance at Stiles for spilling everything is rapidly turning into gratitude. "It's the best place for him." He hopes it is.

"Do you think one day he'll _not_ try to kill everyone we know and hold dear?" Cora asks. She sounds cavalier, on the surface. Derek knows her enough to tell that she's really not.

"I don't think so," he says softly. "I think that's just who he is, and who he's always been."

"I guess." Cora goes quiet, her slow exhales the only indication that she's still on the line. 

Derek counts her breaths and gets to fifteen before he's bursting with the need to change the subject, keep her talking to him some more. God, he really _is_ acting more like Stiles. 

He… sort of likes it, which is probably the most horrifying thing.

He clears his throat loudly. "Hey, you don't remember mom's bolognese recipe, do you?"

Cora snorts, and her tone turns teasing. "You think I cook? Cooking's a waste of time when you have restaurants that deliver and a werewolf metabolism."

He nods, dropping his frypan in the sink and reaching for the stack of takeout menus next to the fridge. "Yeah," he says, "I guess it is."

Stiles pretty much eats anything, anyway.

 

"Well, Dad, the thing is—" Stiles stops. He looks at Derek, who had to convince him to come here, then back to his dad, then to the closed door of his dad's office, then back to Derek.

"Holy shit," the Sheriff says sharply, and Stiles and Derek both jump. The expletive sounds so alien coming the Sheriff's lips. "Son, are you _actually_ gay?" He pales, scent clouding with shame. "Did I— Have I been—"

"No, no, it's not that," Stiles reassures him quickly. Then he pauses and amends, "Well, not exactly that, I'm not gay, I'm probably bi? Maybe pan?"

"Pan?" the Sheriff repeats.

"I'm not sure, I think I need more experience to find out," Stiles says, "but that's not the issue here."

"It's not?" the Sheriff asks, voice small. He looks at Derek. "Then what?"

"Dad, I'm…" He takes a deep breath. "I have magic."

And then the Sheriff's land line phone explodes.

 

Obviously, Derek isn't doing enough for Stiles, and he's trying to learn from his mistakes this time. Which means asking for help with he needs it. It's easier, when it's for someone else, someone he—

He Skypes Braeden, this time.

"Calling your ex about your… anchory-person," Stiles mutters as the video call goes through. He's perched on the very edge of his desk chair, fidgeting. Their phones are off, his bedroom door is locked and his closet, the only other thing in the room to feature doors, is jammed shut. "Not awkward at all."

Derek leans over him and angles the laptop screen up. "Shut up," Derek snaps at him, just as Braeden's face appears on his screen.

She raises an eyebrow. "But I only just got here," she says.

"No, I'm— Stiles is here," Derek says, dragging Stiles up into view.

"Heeeeey," he says, waving awkwardly. "Lookin' good there, Brae."

"No," she says immediately, voice tinny through Stiles' laptop speakers but still managing to shut that nickname down. "Also, Malia isn't here so you can stop looking petrified."

Stiles' shoulders slump in relief. "Cool. I mean… yeah. Okay. Thanks."

"We need to know about magic-users," Derek says, cutting in. He wants this over and done with as soon as possible. "Do you know anyone trustworthy we can contact?"

"Why?"

"Well, as of Derek going all wolf on Wall Street, I am officially with magic," Stiles says, wiggling spirit-fingers.

Braeden crosses her arms, leaning back to take in Stiles fully. "You know, I shouldn't be surprised, but I am," she says finally.

"Thanks," Stiles mutters.

Derek sighs. "He doesn't know what he's doing and there's no-one to help. I tried, but…"

"No, you wouldn't be able to," she says dismissively. "If anything your presence probably just amplifies his abilities. Tell me exactly what's been happening."

Stiles tells her about the phones, about the moving objects, about the doors and locks that are constantly acting up around him, and Derek watches her face.

She seems intrigued, but not worried, and that immediately brings him some comfort.

"Sounds like you've got some telekinetic ability," she says. "Usually it's referred to as 'power of the will' so if Deaton's mentioned your belief in the past it makes sense." She frowns. "There might be something you could do in the short-term, until we figure something else out. Maybe some kind of binding process? I've heard that can help."

Derek frowns, thinking about the magic-users he's met. Pretty much every emissary other than Deaton has had one thing in common: "Tattoos?"

"Wait, _what_?" Stiles shrieks. "I…" He clears his throat, shakes his head. His heart speeds up so quickly it's concerning, and Derek can see sweat beading at his hairline. He smells terrible. "I'm… please tell me I don't—"

"Well, maybe," Braeden says. She shrugs. "I know plenty of magic-users who have—"

But Stiles is no longer listening.

He's too busy passing out.

Derek catches him before he hits the floor, but Stiles' chin still glances off the side of his desk.

"You know this is ridiculous, right?" Braeden says judgmentally, watching as Derek carefully manoeuvres Stiles over to his bed. 

"I'm well aware," Derek mutters.

Downstairs, the doors of all the cars in a three-house radius burst open.

 

Beacon Hills is currently in the midst of a freak rain storm. Derek is only outside for under a minute closing their car doors, but he gets soaked anyway, and he hates _everything_.

Once he gets back up to Stiles' room he goes straight for his dresser and yanks out a henley, only barely managing to pull it on and not bury his nose in it first.

He turns back to the laptop and Braeden is smirking.

"Shut up," he says again. This time, he really means it.

 

When Stiles wakes up he bolts upright and takes a moment to muzzily survey the room, before he groans and his hands go straight to his chin.

"Owww," he groans, petting it.

Derek rolls his eyes. "It's only a flesh wound."

"I have a bruise!" Stiles exclaims, checking his face in the front-facing camera of his phone. "Oh my god, this is the least sexy bruise in history."

"Agreed," Braeden says, and Stiles jumps, like he forgot she was still online. He waves sheepishly and clambers off the bed and back over to his desk. He tries to push Derek off the chair, but Derek just flashes his eyes at him. 

"Derek!" Stiles whines.

"You snooze you lose," Derek says.

Stiles opens his mouth to retaliate, but then he finally seems to realise that something is different about Derek. "Your hair's wet," he accuses. "And you're wearing my shirt. What the hell Derek, why—"

But he doesn't get any further. A loud clicking noise comes from the laptop, and they both look over to see a different view of Braeden. She's casually cocking a gun as she inspects a huge array of weapons set out across her dining table. Derek doubts it has ever been used for actual dining. "Can we talk about the tattoos now?" she asks, bored.

"Oh god," Stiles says, gagging. "I don't think I can—"

"Seriously, kid, you don't need tattoos! Calm the hell down, damn." She shakes her head. "I can't believe _you're_ gonna be the next Beacon Hills emissary."

Stiles freezes mid-retch.

Derek sighs.

 

Stiles storms all the way out of his own house and into the rain before he seems to realise what he's done.

"What am I— Oh my god! This is _my_ house—" And he spins around, colliding directly with Derek's chest. "Oh my god, _why_ are you always right there!" He plants his palms on Derek's shoulders and shoves him back. "And an emissary, really Derek? _Really_? Why didn't you _tell_ me? Don't _I_ get a say in where my life is going?"

"Where exactly _did_ you think this was going?" Derek yells.

Stiles scowls at him. "Where did _you _think it was going? What—" He trails off, gaze catching on something behind Derek. "What…? Ugh, of course," he mutters, stomping wetly over to his neighbour's driveway, where their red Toyota is sitting with all the doors open. He tries to close the driver's side, pushes with all his might against the metal, but it refuses to budge and he gives a little scream of frustration before whipping back around to Derek. "Why did you even come back here, Derek? You could have gone to stay with Cora, you could have left with Braeden! You could be Alpha anywhere, nothing ties you here anymore! Beacon Hills already has an Alpha!"__

__Derek scowls at him. "Oh, _nothing_ ties me here? Nothing, really?"_ _

__"No!" he yells, but his heart trips over itself, ever truthful._ _

__"What do you want from me, Stiles?" Derek he asks tiredly, rubbing his eyes. "I'm trying to help you. I told you you're my— you know we're linked. You know that even if we weren't, I'd still want…"_ _

__Stiles' whole body slumps. "I didn't know that, actually," he says quietly._ _

__Derek feels exposed, flayed open and more vulnerable than ever, but he forces himself to say, "I don't know how you didn't."_ _

__He scrunches up his face, reaching up to swipe his drenched hair out of the way. "You wanna know what I want? I want control over something in my life, for _once_. I want to stop doing stupid shit with my mind. I wanna be able to go to school and not lock the whole class in the room! Or think about my ex-girlfriend and not cause a fucking phone-pocalypse."_ _

__Derek can't help the small, faltering step he takes forward, or the hand that brushes over Stiles' wrist. "I… ex-girlfriend?" It's the wrong thing to focus on, he knows. He does it anyway._ _

__"Yeah." It's hard to tell around the rain and the fizzy smell of Stiles' magic, but he doesn't seem as miserable about it as he was. "We never really… and I don't even know if she's ever coming back. It's better this way." He catches Derek's eye. "I know _you_ think it's better this way."_ _

__Derek stops short. He can feel the panic setting in, Stiles was never supposed to know, Derek wasn't, he didn't mean to make him feel—_ _

__"Hey, hey, Derek, it's okay," he says gently, running his hands up to Derek's shoulders, planting his palms there and holding Derek steady. " _It's okay_. You're not… you aren't the only one in this. Okay?"_ _

__Derek's head snaps up, and he stares at Stiles, reaches up to clutch at Stiles' wrists in case he tries to pull away. "What?"_ _

__"I feel things too," he repeats. "And you're gonna help me figure this magic thing out. And then I'm gonna turn eighteen, and _we're_ gonna figure this _us_ thing out, okay? I promise," he says._ _

__Derek hears no lies._ _

__

__Stiles turns eighteen on April 8th, two months later._ _

__

__On April 9th, at 7.33pm, after a training session with Noshiko Yukimura—who at nine-hundred years old has more than a little knowledge about magic and control—Stiles shows up at the loft._ _

__Derek gives Stiles a bag of quadruple-bagged dried wolfsbane flowers that he stole from the Vet clinic, and a card with a cactus on it that says _you make me so thorny. also happy birthday i guess_._ _

__Stiles gives Derek a bag containing no less than seven different kinds of lube._ _

__

__"Wait, wait," Stiles gasps, rearing up._ _

__He doesn't smell of anything other than arousal though, and nothing goes flying around the room or slams open and/or closed, so Derek ignores him. He grabs for him, drags him back down and wraps his hands around his hips harder, fingernails pressing into his hipbones. "Why?"_ _

__"Because I was trying really hard not to come, so I was like running through my usual litany of gross images, but then I started thinking too much about naked mole rats and now I need some space because that shit is nasty."_ _

__"Call me beep me if you wanna reach me," Derek says dryly, but he does pull back a little, to give them breathing room._ _

__"Oh my god!" Stiles says delightedly. "You got the reference! Kim Possible was my first crush! She could beat me up." His tone is admiring now, and Derek shakes his head._ _

__He never knows whether to be irritated, intrigued or fond when it comes to Stiles. The answer is probably a healthy mixture of all three._ _

__"We really need to do something about your obsessions with dangerous people," Derek says._ _

__"If we did, then there would be no us," Stiles argues. "And I like us."_ _

__"Yeah," Derek says. He leans down, runs his nose up Stiles' neck and gives him a long, soft kiss. "Me too."_ _

**Author's Note:**

> BONUS:
> 
> "So I signed my initials under yours," Stiles murmurs, sliding into Derek's bed next to him. He's cold, skin clammy from getting caught in the storm outside. "I'm so romantic."
> 
> "And what initials would they be?" Derek asks sleepily, dragging him closer.
> 
> Stiles grins into his throat. "Good try, but no."
> 
> Derek grunts. And then he cracks one eye open, waking up enough to fully process what Stiles actually said. "You know I never actually made it to senior scribe, right?"
> 
> Stiles frowns. "What? But, no, the DH was—"
> 
> "Probably Dudley Hamilton," Derek says, rubbing a hand up Stiles' back. "He was in jail for extortion and blackmail, last I heard. I hope you two are very happy together, immortalised forever on the library bookshelf."
> 
> Stiles sniffs and rolls more on top of Derek. "Too bad for him I think white collar crime is for candy-asses," he says primly. "I only date murder suspects."
> 
> "Let me control my glee," Derek says.
> 
>  
> 
>    
> PS. Someone probably needs to write about Stiles the sUBERnatural driver. Just saying.
> 
>    
>  
> 
> PPS. This is a bit different from my usual style, and writing so close (not all that close tbh, but this is the closest I'll ever get) to canon was a challenge, so I wanna give a shoutout to these resources: [TW Timeline](http://www.teenwolfwiki.com/Timeline#Season%205A) | [TW Ages](http://colethewolf.tumblr.com/post/69618737664/teen-wolf-character-birthdays-ages-special) | [Sterek looking at each other aka my favourite thing ever](http://weregays.tumblr.com/post/147104934749/sterek-meaningful-looks) | [ANCHOR](http://auntpol.tumblr.com/post/148867046824/bilesandthesourwolf-can-you-believe-that-derek) | [a v brief magic summary](http://hiddenlegacy.ilona-andrews.com/types-of-magic/)


End file.
